


drink the wine of violence

by straddling_the_atmosphere



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blasphemy, Catholicism, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Pre-Slash, Priests, Religion, every time i talk about religion i talk about someone being abused by a priest jesus christ, this is like full on blasphemy adlksf sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:20:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straddling_the_atmosphere/pseuds/straddling_the_atmosphere
Summary: In which John Silver and Captain Flint discuss religion and stories are told.Some are even true.(Judas Iscariot was a disciple first, after all.)





	drink the wine of violence

**Author's Note:**

> a short little thing that wouldn't leave me alone. spot the bible quotes!

“Are you a religious man, Silver?” Flint asks and Silver looks at him, brow furrowed. 

“Not as such, no,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

Flint’s eyes flick down from his face to rest on his neck, where a deep silver, ornate cross sits heavily on the hollow of Silver’s throat.

Silver exhales. “Oh.” His hand comes out to touch it, the metal cool and familiar against his skin.

Flint hums, turning his cup of rum slowly in between his hands, rings glinting.

“It was a prize,” he says. “From that Spanish ship we took.”

Flint looks at him, the light of the setting sun making his eyes grey like ash. Silver feels flayed apart under that gaze, like always.

“I suppose it reminded me of something,” Silver says softly, looking down at his glass, absently swirling the rum inside of it. Doesn’t think about the blurred image of dark curly hair and soft hymns, gentle hands. He can feel Flint’s eyes on him and he smiles, faint.

“Did I ever tell you, Captain, of the time I pretended to be a priest?”

“Mm,” Flint hums encouragingly, taking a sip of his rum.

“I was young still, but the town I was in--a little nothing town in the outskirts of London--had a parish in need of someone.”

“And from the goodness of your own heart, you stepped in,” Flint says, the sound of his voice warm like a crackling fire.

Silver flashes him a smile. “What can I say--I am a generous being, Captain.”

Flint snorts, pouring himself more rum from the bottle between them.

(The real story went something like this: once there was a boy, marks visible on skinny wrists and on the pale skin of his hips. He slunk away from confessional, purple bags under his eyes deep as a bruise, and Silver tossed him a few coins when he caught him on the way out of the church.

The priest died a violent death, slit from ear to ear. When Silver put on the priest’s collar, dried blood was still under his nails.)

“And what was Father Silver’s favorite parable?” Flint asks, arching an eyebrow.

“For the people of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own kind than are the people of the light. I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings,” Silver says, staring out at the sea, eyes faraway.

“Book of Luke,” Flint says, appraising him for a moment before he has more rum. “The shrewd merchant.” Silver turns his head, blinking at him.

“I didn’t know you were a religious man, Captain,” he says.

Flint snorts, lips curved. “Nothing quite hides your lack of education than knowing a Bible verse for every situation,” he says. 

Silver tucks that pocket of information into the deep recesses of his mind, into a folder he’s named Flint, to add to the growing list of things that he’s painstakingly finding out about him.

“How long did you stay at the parish?” Flint asks, and Silver takes a long swig of rum, savoring the taste in the back of his throat before swallowing it. 

“Not long,” he says. “A few months. Stole their donations and the wine before they could figure out I was a fraud.” 

“Not quite a man of God, then,” Flint says, smirking and Silver shrugs, but he smiles.

(Silver remembers the poppy-perfume taste of the wine, the bruised color it turned his lips, the bruises on the altar boy’s neck and jaw, the vacant look in his eyes.

“He’s gone,” he’d told the boy, and the boy had met his eyes for a brief moment, and bile froze in Silver’s throat. He was found dead three weeks later, starved to death. Silver didn’t stay long after that.)

“Tell me, Captain,” Silver says, and Flint looks at him, twisting a ring on his finger. His eyes are dark and serious and Silver swallows, absently rolling his wrist. “What say you to those who call us wraths from the heavens? Those who hear our story and think us omens of death?”

Flint makes a low, thoughtful sound in his throat and Silver shivers, the noise settling deep in his spine. 

“Draw also the spear and the battle-axe to meet those who pursue me; Say to my soul, ‘I am your salvation,’" he murmurs, and his eyes are feverishly bright, gold flecks near the pupil, a near supernatural glow of green as the sun sinks into the sea behind him, lighting his beard copper and gold.

“That’s blasphemy, Captain,” he says, voice pitched equally as low. The leaves rustle quietly behind them, the sound of frogs chirping quietly in the background, their heads bent together. Silver can count the constellation of freckles along Flint’s face from here, the cluster that bunches along his cheeks and spreads over his nose, framing the delicate lines of his face.

“No,” Flint says, something warm and bright in his eyes. Silver feels himself leaning forward. “Blasphemy would be--” Silver’s breath catches in his throat when Flint traces one of the rings on his hand, his thumb hot on Silver’s skin. “We will make for you ornaments of gold, studded in silver--your neck with strings of jewels.”

A hot blush works its way up Silver’s neck, his necklace heavy on his throat, like a noose.

“Flint--”

Flint squeezes his hand, flashing him a small smile before he stands. “We have an early day tomorrow, Silver. Get your rest.” And Silver watches him go, something tangled and thick in his chest.

-

(But Jesus said to him, "Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?"

And Long John Silver buried Captain Flint alive.)

**Author's Note:**

> this really is a theme for me, religion and john silver
> 
> follow me @ tomasortega on tumblr


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